Or,
its earlier brother in the family of discovery. But drive on, John Ormond,
we will leave etymology to the pedants."

Well, well, ancient or modern, there is not a lovelier ride by
white-pebbled beach and wide stretch of wave. Now we roll along amidst
primeval trees, not the evergreens of the sea-coast, but familiar growths
of maple, beech, birch; and larches, juniper or hackmatack--imperishable
for ship craft. Now we cross bridges, over sparkling brooks, alive with
trout and salmon, and most surprising of all, pregnant with _water-power_.
"Surprising," because no motive-power can be presented to the eye of a
citizen of the young republic without the corresponding thought of "Why
not use it?" And why not, when Bras d'Or is so near, or the sea-coast
either, and land at forty cents an acre, and trees as closely set, and as
lofty, as ever nature planted them? Of a certainty, there would be a
thousand saw-mills screaming between this and Canseau if a drop of Yankee
blood had ever fertilized this soil.

Well, well, perhaps it is well. But yet to ride through a hundred miles of
denationalized, high-cheeked, red, or black-headed Highlandmen, with
illustrious names, in breeches and round hats, without pistols or
feathers, is a sorry sight. Not one of these McGregors can earn more than
five shillings a day, currency, as a laborer. Not a digger upon our canals
but can do better than that; and with the chance of _rising_. But here
there seems be no such opportunity. The colonial system provides that
every settler shall have a grant of about one hundred and twenty acres, in
fee, and free. What then? the Government fosters and protects him. It
sends out annually choice stocks of cattle, at a nominal price; it
establishes a tariff of duties on foreign goods, so low that the revenue
derived therefrom is not sufficient to pay the salaries of its officers.
What then? The colonist is only a parasite with all these advantages. He
is not an integral part of a nation; a citizen, responsible for his
franchise. He is but a colonial Micmac, or Scotch-Mac; a mere
sub-thoughted, irresponsible exotic, in a governmental cold grapery. By
the great forefinger of Tom Jefferson, I would rather be a citizen of the
United States than _own_ all the five-shilling Blue Noses between Sydney
and Canseau!

As we roll along up hill and down, a startling flash of sunlight bursts
forth from the dewy morning clouds, and touches lake, island, and
promontory,